


Strange Snow

by Lira_Chimera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is in over his head but the water's warm, Dean remembers things from back when Sam didn't have a soul, Discussing things with wrestling, M/M, Sam and Dean discussing things, Sam is not particularly upset, Sam remembers something from back when he didn't have a soul, Sort of wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 17:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lira_Chimera/pseuds/Lira_Chimera
Summary: Back when Sam was soulless, he wanted something from Dean. He had to work hard to get it and, in the end, he succeeded. But now that his soul is back he's remembering again, and he wants what he wanted back then all over again.





	Strange Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glowered](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=glowered).
  * Inspired by [In a safe behind a painting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/493710) by [glovered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered). 



> Prompted by a comment made by glowered: https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/863261?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_180854031
> 
> Read her story first to make the most sense of this one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493710
> 
> Title suggested by my beta 36and40. Thanks to both my betas, 36and40 and Valkyrie69, for their very helpful input, suggestions and general fabulous friendship. Any errors remaining are my own.

Sam’s been looking at Dean strangely all day, not meeting his eyes but always glancing away as if he can’t get caught staring if they don’t make solid eye contact. Dean has a sneaking suspicion about why this might be but he resolutely resists going there. He just… can’t. This makes his hands sweat and he finds himself gnawing on his lower lip, which pisses him off. They’re supposed to be doing research but instead all he can think about is… No. He will not think about that- NO.

Dean pushes back from the table, chair feet scraping over the floor (which makes his neck hairs stand up because it’s so much like fingernails on a chalkboard), and takes a lap around the room.

-Dean, what is it?

Sam sounds worried and for some reason he’s not quite clear on this makes him abruptly angry.

-Sam, just stop- But Dean’s brain just freezes up, he stops mid stride and he almost loses his balance. Good, he thinks, when his brain clears its throat and thoughts begin to flow again. I’m an idiot who can’t even walk and think at the same time. What the fuck is my-

-Dean, stop what? Sam asks cautiously from behind him.

Dean hears him setting aside the book he was paging through, hears it land softly on the table, a sort of thick, soft sound of old, dry leather meeting wood.

Dean thinks, isn’t there some sort of treatment we should be doing for these old books? Wax? Linseed oil? Saddle soap? But Sam is looking at him, he can feel it, that earnest gaze, the furrowed brow, the slight leaning forward that could be threatening but isn’t (not now) and Dean doesn’t even need to be facing him to know this. All thoughts of leather reconditioning vanish without a single prick of guilt, which is saying something since he’s currently the King of Guilt. But, Sam.

Sam’s concern is real and not like, not like when it was an act, a pretended thing to make Dean feel more comfortable and which only made him want to scream or want to hit something (someone) or worse.

Dean doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t move, he just stands there, lost in the middle of the room, in the middle of his thoughts which are now whirling manically so that he feels even more dizzy than before. He watches the various images and words go whizzing past like flying monkeys or

He hears Sam pushing back from the table (his chair’s feet make only a mild protest), getting up, the soft padding of Sam’s boots as he’s walking towards him.

Dean’s heart rate spikes and he swallows convulsively but Sam passes him and goes into the kitchen. Dean thinks mean thoughts at himself because he notices how lean Sam is, how tense his shoulders are, and feels unaccountably annoyed that Sam is apparently ignoring him.

But Sam goes to the fridge, opens the door and light spills, sudden and too bright. There is the clink of glass. Sam turns, lets the door close behind him, and he’s offering up a couple of beers to share. The furrows in his brow are deliberately smoothed, the earnestness Dean could feel before is tempered by a sort of circumspect caution as though Dean is in need of being placated or soothed.

Dean feels another surge of irritation but he holds it sternly in check while Sam opens first one bottle and then the other, holds one up for Dean to take. Dean manages the five necessary steps to get within reach, takes the beer and drinks from it without even looking at the label.

-Sam, what the hell is up with you?

Sam hesitates, then visibly steels himself.

-I remember, Sam says.

Sam is aiming to sound certain, sure, but Dean doesn’t think he’s feeling either of those things. Sam sounds like he does when he’s found what he thinks is a bit of desperately needed lore or maybe figured out just the right weapon to use to bring down the big bad but he’s not quite sure, not quite certain, and a mistake is likely to screw them both up badly.

-What? Dean asks, unable to resist, looking at Sam sideways, the mouth of his beer bottle pausing just before touching his lips. He’s trying to stay cool, too, to be the secure older brother who can’t be phased by anything his complex, crazy intelligent, stupidly big hearted little brother can come up with. But there is a flush on Sam’s cheekbones that wasn’t there a moment ago and something about that wrecks all of Dean’s intended coolness in an instant.

-The, the kiss. Sam’s eyes drop at the first word, rise at the repeat and he licks his lips after the third, gaze solid and straight into Dean’s.

An electric shiver runs down Dean’s spine and he feels his face get hot. He takes a swig of beer, swallows wrong, chokes, coughs, and wipes at his mouth awkwardly with the back of one hand. He makes to leave the kitchen but Sam is suddenly in his way and there’s this awkward dance between them and suddenly the fridge is behind him, and apparently the counter and one kitchen chair are also conspiring to keep him in place.

Sam looms in that weird I-used-to-be-a-little-kid-but-now-I’m-not-so-get-used-to-this kind of way he pulls on Dean now and then when he really wants to make a point. Dean’s never dreamed of telling him how this makes him feel very strange, a mixed up mess of vulnerable and needy that’s always been deeply upsetting, if he dared think about it for more than a second or two.

-I remember, Sam repeats, quietly, and then puts one gentle paw on Dean’s shoulder and pushes him slowly, slowly into the corner between the fridge and the counter top.

-Sam. Dean’s body, the traitor, goes kind of, well, not soft exactly, but pliable, malleable, as though the heat in his face has invaded the rest of his body right down to the marrow of his bones.

-Tell me no, Sam says, and waits, patient but almost vibrating with a peculiar kind of eagerness, contained but barely so.

Dean just gapes at him, breath coming more quickly than it should, words piling up in his head, jamming so tight that not a one of them can get to his mouth.

Sam is abruptly closer, and though they’re not touching except where Sam’s hand is still on his shoulder, Dean can still feel him from the soles of his booted feet to the crown of his head. It’s the strangest sensation, something like when they’re hunting and are so synched up that even out of sight of each other they know exactly where the other is. Something like that but-

Sam leans in and says, low and a little hoarse, -Tell me no, Dean.

All words vanish from Dean’s mind except one.

Sam’s face softens in an almost smile, and leans in that last tiny bit. Eyes open, their lips meet, and it’s awkward and frightening and strange and it should be totally confusing and it is but it’s also so simple that they both sigh a little with relief.

Sam draws back, Dean fumbles his beer to the counter behind him and brings his hand, cool and damp from the condensation on the glass, up to the side of Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes close briefly under the touch, and he leans his cheek into Dean’s palm as though he’d like to rest there forever.

Dean’s breath hitches and Sam sighs and they kiss again, eyes closing this time, mouths opening.

The kiss goes on and on until Dean feels like he’s melting, and they’re pressed up against each other from mouth to feet, arms wound around each other, and they make the same, low desperate sound in their throats in unison, almost on the same note. Dean winds one hand in the soft strands at the back of Sam’s head and pulls just enough to make him gasp a little, then bites his lower lip. Sam bites back and then licks to gentle the sting, then their foreheads touch and they just sort of breathe together, quick and eager, still in synch.

-Huh, Dean says and laughs a little. He feels dizzy, lightheaded, nerves zinging with a hot electric buzz.

-Dean, Sam says, dazed seeming and he shudders lightly all over like a horse shifting off a fly from its coat.

-Okay, then, Dean says. -That’s…

-It’s different, Sam says, suddenly serious, thoughtful. -So different. Dean, it’s nothing like when-

-Shut up, Dean says, a sort of violent, twisted fear rising up in him. He doesn’t want to think of those other kisses at all. -Shut UP.

Dean pulls hard on Sam’s hair, still muttering, -Shut up, shut up, shut up! between sharp bites up Sam’s neck. Sam moans and then growls, and they struggle with each other, both trying to get the upper hand but too dazed to really do each other much more than wrestle in a get-closer kind of way. But, Dean has the advantage with those determined bites, and he shoves until Sam is off balance and spins them so that now it’s his brother who has the counter against his back, the fridge along his left side.

Dean hesitates, suddenly anxious, and Sam pulls at him, in a tentative, asking kind of way, and Dean complies instantly, anxiety burnt away by a raw, desperate hunger that nearly bring tears to his eyes. He nudges with one knee against one of Sam’s, and Sam obligingly opens his legs so that Dean can press in between them. Sam is a bit shorter this way and Dean approves with the change in their apparent heights. The way Sam blushes and ducks his face makes it plain he likes this, too, and Dean grins and licks his lips, then licks Sam’s lips, too, just because, and Sam laughs, breathlessly, with a joy that sounds almost delirious.

-Dean, Sam says, hesitant, almost a question.

-Sam. It’s not a reply so much as an affirmation.

This is happening, this is real, and in all their fucked up, trauma-filled lives it’s not the worst thing that’s happened between them or maybe even the best. Maybe… maybe the best comes later. Dean doesn’t know, doesn’t care, fuck the future, fuck the whole fucking world. But Sam is obviously trying to think and that’s just ridiculous and Dean now knows one sure-fire way to shut that big brain down for a minute or two.

This time, when their mouths meet it’s with hard, greedy, almost desperate kisses that hurt and bruise and are almost like blows. It’s something like when they spar or really fight, but with a weird sort of awkwardness that’s reminiscent of when they were kids- and isn’t that another level of oh, god, what the fuck are we doing but apparently neither of them cares enough to stop so the kisses and bites and grabby hands just escalate until Dean’s beer is knocked over, the fridge is moved several inches to one side and a bunch of the magnet-held notes, photos, receipts and such go to the floor like strange snow.

Finally, they pause, panting for breath, shirts untucked, a few buttons gone, Sam’s hair has gone completely wild, and one of Dean’s sleeves is soaked with spilled beer but he can’t think of anything but of why they paused. Because the kissing was one thing, the wrestling of control back and forth was another, all of that could be rationalized as some kind of insane one-upping of each other, a weird game born of frustration, fear and loneliness, but Dean’s right hand… that hand has slipped under Sam’s shirts and lies flat on Sam’s hot belly, the skin more sleek than satin, and the taut muscles quivering underneath.

Sam’s face turns up to his with an expression of something approaching agony.

-Dean, Sam pleads.

Dean is unable to speak, can only feel and know that, if he were to dare it, he could slide his hand lower, and that Sam wouldn’t stop him. Sam would let him do anything, anything at all.

There is the rattle of gravel under tires in the driveway. Their eyes go wide in almost comical alarm and they spring apart, trying to put their clothes to rights before Bobby comes in. They manage to get that sorted and Sam starts up on collecting the magnets and papers off the floor while Dean grabs a dishrag and mops wildly at the spilled beer.

The kitchen door opens, Bobby walks in with bags of groceries in his arms. He takes one look at them, frowns, and says, -You two fighting again?

-Uh, Sam begins and Dean interrupts immediately: -He started it!

Sam chokes, half outrage, half laughing, and Dean glares at him, mouthing shut up at him even though Bobby can totally read his lips.

Bobby cocks his head at them, suspicious squint, eyes like lasers.

-You boys. You’ll be the death of me, he drawls. -Now help me put this shit away or get the hell out of my way.

They fumble oranges, sending them pelting to the floor, put bacon in the crisper drawer, eggs in the freezer and commit other food storage-related atrocities until Bobby loses his patience and shoos them out of the kitchen. Dean grabs a couple of beers from the sixer on the counter (Bobby snaps the dishtowel at him) and they head out to the porch.

They sit on the steps, as far apart as they can get. Dean pops the caps on the beers and passes one to Sam. They take a few pulls before they are calm enough to actually taste the beer. It’s not familiar but it’s good, rich but not thick or heavy, and it goes down easy. Dean looks at the label which has a full moon in metallic gold on an indigo field, and the name in blood red, Hunter’s Moon, across the bottom.

Dean smirks at this and holds up his bottle and waggles it at Sam. Sam tilts his head and his lips quirk up in recognition but they don’t say anything.

The birds are singing the sun down and the junk yard looks positively bucolic in the golden light. Dean breathes in the cooling air, which is faintly scented with motor oil and automotive metal giving up the heat of the day, with an occasional stronger smell of freshly fertilized distant fields when the light breeze shifts to the right direction. It’s a combination that is so familiar as to be homey, and Dean tries not to think of all the times he and Sam have sat here on this set of stairs. If he does that he’ll just get confused and irritated, and, okay, emotional, so he’s just not going there, damnit. Right now is weird and confusing enough. No need to add more crap to the pile.

They’ve been studiously avoiding making any eye contact but finally they glance up at each other at the same moment and it’s impossible to avoid. Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam laughs a little under his breath.

-So, was it good for you? Sam asks, trying to sound as though he’s smiling, but it’s strained. He looks away, knocks back the last of his beer.

-Uh, Dean hedges for a second and then says, very quietly, -Yeah, yeah, I guess it was.

-Better than-

-Shut UP about that, Sam, Dean growls, abruptly hot under the collar. -It was nothing like that.

Sam turns to face him, and Dean rubs at the back of his neck where he knows red is starting to show.

-Sammy, he starts and then his mouth closes hard. Then he sighs. -Yeah, it was good and not a bit like, like… But, man, we just…

-Yeah, I know, Sam says, and his voice is even but there’s an undercurrent of tiredness and another element that Dean can’t pinpoint but something about it makes his heart hurt.

-I mean, I’m not saying, uh, never again or anything, Sammy, but, I gotta think about this a little.

-Honestly? I think we’re already long past thinking about this, Dean. But, whatever you need. Time, space, whatever. Sam turns to his beer bottle and begins to carefully peel away the label.

Dean looks at him then, and though he can’t see most of his brother’s face through the curtain of his hair, he does see the tension in his jaw, the way his lips are compressed. Not a bitch face, though. The hurt in his heart twists a little.

-Sammy, I’m not saying no.

Sam’s fingers pause in their work and then he sets the bottle aside on the step beside him.

-Okay. Sam hesitates a moment, then faces him again and says, anxious, hopeful, resolute, -Just so you know, I will say yes.

Their eyes meet and lock, and Dean feels the pain in his heart ease, then vanish. Something like wings beating rushes through him, and he can’t help grinning, feeling oddly bashful.

-Okay, then, he says and his ears burn and Sam grins and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard, just a friendly thump. And Dean laughs because it’s not sexual or even sensual, it’s just friendly and all kinds of alright, and suddenly the last of his tension melts away.

They watch the sun go down in a blaze of red, one last little cloud burning like molten gold above the tree line. They can hear Bobby inside, rustling around in the kitchen. The smell of pork chops, garlic and onion frying wafts to them but they sit quiet in the deepening dusk, content to rest for a bit.

The hot gold cloud dims, turns to ash, and Bobby calls through the window,

-Supper’s on, boys.


End file.
